The 7 Per Cent Problem
by Badgirl.Riddim
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock sit down to talk and the truth comes out. Sherlock is broken and Mycroft needs to intervene. Trigger Warning: Drug Use mentioned.


Firstly, I promise nothing. The last time I wrote was in 2011 as an angsty teenager. I now sit here, aged 21 with absolutely no idea about what I've just written.

Secondly, if you like this or, y'know, even if you don't then please review. Review's were gold dust back in 2011 and I can guarantee they still are now. Constructive criticism and harsh praise are always welcome ;)

Thirdly, I always like to pop this in but there is reference to **drug use** so please be careful if you're easily triggered. Tread carefully among these words.

Now, please enjoy. Or at least _try_ to.

It was raining. It was always raining. Sherlock stood bathed in the glow of the amber street light in the window of 221B Baker Street. His blue silk robe left loose, his grey t-shirt and black trousers visible underneath. The criminal minds of London weren't operating in this weather. It was hateful. Sherlock remained in that position, looking out at the few people scurrying through the downpour into the warmth of their homes. People had such a strange way of thinking, Sherlock mused. A house is bricks, mortar, a few doors, windows and a roof so, he wondered, when did that definition make it a home? What criteria did normal people have to assess how fitting a house was to become a home? John had once said "Home is where the heart is". A ridiculous thought really. Sentiment alone, in that case, would ensure that every time "The heart" went to the supermarket or caught the tube, the bricks and mortar that were a home only a few short minutes before, would become a house again. Of course, Sherlock understood what John was trying to say but, really, if there was no real meaning behind the words in the literal sense, then why bother wasting them in the first place?

He turned to face the kitchen, observing the half-completed experiment he'd discarded on the table. 3 index fingers were in jars of brightly coloured chemicals waiting to be subjected to the heat of a Bunsen burner. Sherlock wondered whether or not to continue the experiment or tidy the fingers away for another day when the front door slammed with a thud. 9 familiar footsteps. Bottom of the stairs. 11 footsteps. Rounding the corner to the flat. 6 footsteps. He's here. Sherlock glanced at the door to the living room of the flat.

"If you're going to make the effort to come out in this weather, I'm surprised you'd like to spend your time waiting outside." Sherlock raised his voice loud enough for it to be heard through the thick door.

The door handle turned and there stood his brother, umbrella in hand, smirk resting on his thin lips.

"Nice of you to invite me in, brother mine" Quipped Mycroft. He walked purposefully to John's armchair and sat down, the leg of his grey trousers rising above ankle height as he did.

"I wouldn't bother." Sherlock said, "You're not staying."

"On the contrary, brother, I think I am. You may be able to fool your friends, Sherlock, but you won't fool me." Mycroft punctuated the last word with a growl, his lips downturned and his brow wrinkled.

"I do wish you wouldn't try so hard, Mycroft. Always utterly convinced that you're the smart one, that nothing gets past you." Sherlock stepped over the back of his chair, placing his left foot into the squishy fabric as he brought his right foot behind and jumped into a seated position. His brother looked on, unamused.

"And I wish, little brother, that you would grow up and understand the risks you're taking."

"I fully understand the risks, big brother. I am a chemist, after all."

"How long?" Mycroft asked, picking imaginary fluff from his suit jacket.

"Why don't you tell me?" Sherlock leant back in his chair, making a steeple with his hands and resting a strained smile on his lips as he narrowed his eyes. "After all," Sherlock continued "You have, no doubt, been keeping tabs."

Mycroft sighed and reached inside the lining of his suit jacket to pull out the notebook he carried. Sherlock had once commented to John how the downfall of the British Government could be brought about with the loss of that notebook. John had snorted a laugh but Mycroft and Sherlock both knew this to be the truth.

"15th of January – Entered known crack den in Shepherd's Bush. Surveillance carried out by HJ inside suggests relapse." Mycroft read aloud from a page. Sherlock laughed and rolled his eyes.

"Relapse?" Sherlock looked towards the ceiling before returning his attention to his brother. "Brother dear, I'm afraid your time has been wasted. A relapse would suggest that I am not in control of my actions but you would be wrong. I was working on a case and needed to access a higher level of thinking. It's really quite simple, Mycroft. You're wrong. I know you're not used to hearing it but-"

"You're a junkie, Sherlock. Of course, this is a relapse. Any time you " a sigh escaped his lips, "dabble" He said the word as if tasted wrong in his mouth "we're forced to pick up where we left off. This is a relapse, Sherlock and I am your intervention."

Sherlock sniffed. "No, thanks."

"It isn't a request, it's an order. I am your intervention. We will do this. Again. Together." Mycroft leant forward purposefully in his chair, locking eyes with his younger brother.

Sherlock looked at the mantelpiece, his curly dark hair falling into his eyes "It wasn't anything serious."

"Sherlock, the case you were trying to solve, it had already been solved." Mycroft said with a sigh. His little brother had been hit hard by the news, he'd known that. He hadn't known, however, the severity of the impact it would have on his sibling's mental health.

"They were wrong. They're blundering idiots. They were wrong." Sherlock said forcefully. He wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Mycroft or himself.

"Sherlock, they weren't wrong. He confessed. Now, tell me," Mycroft said with a gentle tone. His gaze softened as he looked at his brother with his floppy, uncontrollable hair and his piercing blue eyes. "Was it the usual? The 7% solution?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock's voice was quiet as his gaze dropped to the floor. His hands were shaking and his heart was beating loudly in his chest. Mycroft was right, this was a relapse but then, what could he do? What was he meant to do? He didn't know how to process these types of emotions. There was too much pain. This was all to much. At least this way he could dull it. Numb it for a while. That's all he needed. A release. "Father killing Mother was a 7% problem."

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